Desperate (3/9)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (explicit slash, swearing)
Summary: If he let this go, that was it, Greg knew. Every hold on Sherlock broken, if he covered this up...
Many thanks to The Small Hobbit for betaing.
Part 1, Part 2
What fouled up a marriage, of course, wasn't always the known unknowns. Sometimes it was the things that you couldn't possibly predict: like the Southwark baby boom of the late Nineties and James Phillimore killing himself.
There were too many eleven year-olds in Southwark and Rob didn't get into the nearest secondary school, but one halfway across the borough. In between muttering about the excellent schools in Dorset, Ruth comforted Rob and scheduled meetings with teachers and made plans to improve matters. Greg listened patiently and tried to make helpful suggestions, and got pitying glances from Ruth and Rob at his failure to understand the situation properly.
There were some things Greg did understand, though. That there was something wrong about James Phillimore's suicide. A teenage boy killing himself was hardly unusual. Even the fact that his family and friends hadn't spotted anything wrong was tragic, but commonplace. But when young men decided to kill themselves, they jumped off bridges, or hanged themselves, or gulped down alcohol and painkillers. They didn't take bloody alkaloid poisons. Someone had given Phillimore that drug, and Greg wanted to know who. No-one else did. The file was closed and he brooded about it all over Christmas. He felt he'd let the kid down, but what he needed was some hard evidence.
What he didn't need was a junior transport minister dying and all hell breaking loose. Not to mention Sherlock screwing up the press conference for him. He could make a fool of himself on his own, thank you very much. But it didn't stop him calling in Sherlock as the corpses started to mount. Because what did it matter if he sounded desperate, when he ran up the stairs to 221B and asked Sherlock "Will you come?" What did anything matter as long as there were no more dead bodies?
He didn't even throw a wobbly when Sherlock brought his new flatmate along to Lauriston Gardens, like it was some sort of tourist attraction. But when Sherlock promptly buggered off without telling him or Dr Watson anything, he decided it was time to get control of the operation again. Show Sherlock that there were still some limits.
The drugs bust turned out to be surprisingly informative. There was a spy camera hidden in the sitting room, which suggested that either Mycroft or Sherlock himself was up to something particularly devious. Sherlock also dyed his hair, and was obsessive about organising his clothes, if not spare body parts. Dr Watson, meanwhile, was a decorated ex-army officer who was not sleeping with Sherlock. Well they had separate bedrooms, at least. Why anyone would choose to live with Sherlock if they weren't shagging him, Greg had no idea.
He did soon have an idea of why Sherlock might want Dr Watson around, however, when he saw them together later that night. Sherlock not just talking to the doctor, but listening to him. As if he'd finally found someone whose good opinion he valued. It was probably sentimental of Greg, but he couldn't help telling Dr Watson that evening that Sherlock might yet become a good man, as well as a great one.
No, forget that. It wasn't sentimental, it was utterly stupid. Because what did John Watson promptly go and do an hour later? Shoot somebody with a fucking illegal handgun.
***
"You're looking for a man with nerves of steel," Sherlock announced, standing there with that stupid blanket round him, and then his mouth came to a dead stop. It took a hell of a lot to shut Sherlock up, but when Greg's gaze followed Sherlock's, he knew who could. The small, mostly harmless looking figure of Dr John Watson.
Christ, he thought, and then Sherlock started lying to him about being in shock. Maybe it wasn't a lie, though, because he felt like he'd gone into shock himself. I should do something, he told himself, even as he let Sherlock walk away, towards the man who'd just saved his life by ending another's.
This isn't bloody Afghanistan. If he let this go, that was it, he knew. Every hold on Sherlock broken, if he covered this up, turned a blind eye to what was going on. But if he arrested Dr Watson, that was the end as well. He'd saved Sherlock's life, after all. Greg couldn't have saved Sherlock; he hadn't saved Beth Davenport or Jennifer Wilson or James Phillimore. And Sherlock had found them the killer. Sherlock was the only weapon Greg had sometimes, and maybe John Watson was now Sherlock's weapon.
It's too late, anyhow, he told himself, but he knew that was a lie. He could go back to 221B tomorrow and look for evidence against Dr Watson, pull him in for questioning, and then leave the outcome to the Crown Prosecution Service. They might well not prosecute for the cabbie's death, but if the gun was his, he was looking at an immediate jail sentence.
If John Watson went to jail, Sherlock would never forgive Greg, but so what? You broke the rules, you paid the penalty. That was what life was like. The funny thing was, he suspected Dr Watson understood that. It was Sherlock who didn't have to deal with the consequences of his actions, who relied on always having someone to look after him.
And sure enough, here on cue was Mycroft Holmes, with his smart suit and his glamorous assistant. Greg bet neither of them had ever been to an FE college before.
"Don't say anything," he growled, when the pair stood in front of him. "Or I may change my mind."
Mycroft flicked a glance at his PA, who promptly stepped back, looking as uninterested as ever.
"You might change your mind about what?" Mycroft enquired, with a bland smile that made Greg want to punch him. "Is my brother being awkward?"
Greg crossed his arms, and stood there and said nothing. Which was absolutely sod all use with a Holmes, of course.
"Just now I met Dr Watson," Mycroft drawled. "His hand wasn't shaking and he had an inadequately concealed gun about his person. I take it he's done something rash?"
"Sherlock was about to take poison, when someone shot the serial killer."
"Would it help if I told you that Dr Watson was authorised to carry his gun?"
"I wouldn't believe you."
"Why not? You know what I'm able to do."
"If John Watson was working for you, Sherlock would have kicked him out of the flat within ten minutes."
"Good point, Inspector. But, nevertheless, if you or any of your team should be tempted to arrest Dr Watson, you'll discover he has a handgun license. He has always had that license."
"So I've got no choice?" Greg said.
"You have the choice of hitting your head against a brick wall or not doing so."
He found himself wondering what would happen if he did thump Mycroft. Would his PA just stand there vacantly as usual or would she break his arm?
"I wasn't gonna charge him anyhow," he said at last.
"I know." Mycroft smiled an infinitely irritating smile. "I was merely making the point that your decision was the correct one."
"Reckon so?"
"You may not want Sherlock, but you still need him. I had hoped that Dr Watson would be good for my brother, but I may be wrong. Still, I'm sure things will work out for the best. Good night, DI Lestrade. Sleep well."
***
He went home to Ruth and told him Sherlock had caught a serial killer, and he didn't want to talk about it. She hugged him as he lay in bed beside her, and he told himself that somehow he would make things OK.
***
Greg pulled rank shamelessly and got the February half term off, only to find that Rob was having football camp all week with Mr Morgan.
"Right," he said. "He's one of the PE teachers at the school, isn't he? Is he the skinny one or the vicious looking thug?" He'd turned up late to the last parents' evening, and it had all gone downhill from there.
"He's wonderful," Ruth said. "He's given Rob so much confidence about everything. Don't worry, I can ferry Rob around. I just need you to keep an eye on the girls."
By the end of the week, thanks to Katy, Greg was ready to go on Mastermind with Justin Bieber as his specialist subject. Emily, meanwhile, had taught him how to bandage the paw of an injured tiger, though he suspected it was trickier with a real tiger than her stuffed toy. She'd decided this year she was going to be a vet, not a doctor, which at least meant she no longer felt the need to bandage him up.
He got back to work to find Mark Dimmock was a hero for breaking up a Chinese smuggling ring, and he didn't care. If Sherlock was OK working with someone else, it was fine by him.
***
But a month later there was a funny case, and Sherlock liked those. More than that, it rapidly became the kind of case where Greg needed Sherlock. An improbable puzzle and an impossible deadline; if anybody was going to stop the pips bomber before someone died, it was Sherlock.
Greg stood in 221C Baker Street, rattling out orders to his team, and then braced himself to phone Ruth. To say he would be busy all weekend, but not why. If it got out there was a bomber running rings around the Met there'd be complete panic.
"You said you'd be free on Saturday afternoon," she yelled. "Why is a cold case suddenly so important that it can't wait?" He listened, as she angrily poured out details of arrangements that would have to be altered. She'd have to sort out the swimming lessons and the ballet as usual. But Mr Morgan - Gareth - had found some old football programmes that Rob might want, and she'd promised Rob that they'd go and look at them on Saturday afternoon, while Greg looked after Emily and Katy...
"Can't you all go over to see Gareth Morgan?" he suggested, and Ruth yelled at him some more. Too many months of minor failures as a father, all coming out suddenly in one huge lump of Ruth's hurt. He stood there, with a twelve-hour deadline ticking down, trying to soothe her, conscious of Sherlock switching his attention from the trainers to him. As if there was some vital piece of data to be added to his memory bank: Example of middle-aged couple arguing no. 314.
Greg finished the call at last and turned to the nosy detective. No time to try and explain or excuse himself, so he asked one simple question:
"What do you need to help you solve this?"
***
They were about eight hours down, when Greg went out for a smoke and realised he'd had a text from Ruth. He focused his tired eyes on the screen:
If you're going to be working late, suggest you stay at Stan's, rather than trekking all the way home. R
Greg had kipped on DI Stanislaw Hopkins' sofa a few times in the past, when London transport had got completely fouled up. He'd never had Ruth suggest him doing that before. He sighed and went back to trying to trace Carl Power's former classmates.
***
After a while, the days started to blur together. Had Connie Prince been day 3 or 4, Greg found himself wondering, as the nightmare of countdowns continued. He woke up and there was another body - a dead man on a freezing stretch of the Thames. And a few hours later - or was it a day, or a year? - Ms Wenceslas giving them a name at last. Moriarty.
Greg had real nightmares on Stan's sofa that night: the hostage's voice echoing through the gallery no longer an unknown boy's but Emily's, begging her father to help. He chased after a dream Sherlock, pleading with him to come back, to tell him the answer. Maybe Ruth had been right saying he was better off not coming home, he thought at half six the next morning, as Stan patiently fed him toast and tea, and told him he was going to give himself a heart attack if he didn't slow down.
"There's another pip to come," Greg protested. "Last of five, so it's gotta be something big."
"What's this Moriarty up to?" Stan asked, through a mouthful of toast. "Why's he doing all this?"
"Dunno," Greg said. "I've no idea what the fuck is going on. I just hope Sherlock has."
"You're still working with Sherlock Holmes? Christ. You're really in the shit, Greg."
"No-one else can do what he does."
"Maybe," Stan said. "But I still wouldn't work with him, coz you know things will get fouled up somehow."
"I trust him," Greg said, and Stan sighed and handed him some more toast.
***
Greg wasn't sure he could trust Sherlock, after what happened next. Nothing. When he got back to the Yard that morning there was still no word from the bomber. It gave them a chance to catch up, try and get ahead before the final hostage was taken. Maybe even stop that happening, get this maniac Moriarty before he did...something. He texted Sherlock to see if he'd made any progress overnight, but there was no reply. Not even the usual Thinking or It would help if you banned the playing of Radio 1 in Baker Street while I'm on a case.
When there was still no reply by mid-afternoon, his nerve cracked and he went round to 221B. He rang the doorbell and eventually the door opened. Sherlock stood there, blocking Greg's way in.
"You need more than one person to carry out a drugs bust," he announced, his pale grey eyes staring into Greg's, as if he was trying to hypnotise him.
"I need your help."
"I'm busy."
"What Moriarty's going to do next?"
"Nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Sherlock said, "that the game is over."
"So where is he?" Greg demanded. "He killed twelve people in Glasgow, Sherlock. We have to track him down."
Sherlock just stood there, not replying. He looked like some strange, beautiful statue, and Greg had a sudden terrible urge to grab the man, shake some sense into him. Shit, that was how you gave someone brain damage, wasn't it? Or was that just with babies? He forced his hands to stay down, his mouth to stay shut.
"I met Jim Moriarty for the first time last night," Sherlock said, almost calmly, and suddenly Greg felt like hugging him, rather than throttling him. Because if they had a description, something to go on, they had some hope.
"So what you got?"
"Nothing. The man doesn't exist officially. Well, you'd hardly expect a criminal mastermind to have a Facebook page, would you?"
"You must have something," Greg insisted, "Some way we can get hold of him."
"I can't do it and the Met certainly can't," Sherlock said. "But I know a man who can." His face was still calm, but there was something acid in his tone now, and Greg belatedly realised who he meant.
"You're leaving Mycroft to deal with this?"
"He has the resources to find the man wherever in the world he goes. I don't."
"You're giving up on the case?"
"I'm delegating," Sherlock said. His face hardened into the merciless expression that Greg knew too well. The one that meant: Back off now or you'll regret it. It was tempting to try and push further, to tell Sherlock that he couldn't give up, but he didn't dare to. That was what it always came down to in the end. If Sherlock wanted to stop helping the Met, he could do so right this minute. And if he did that - if he did that because Greg pissed him off - people would die as a result. He wouldn't be able to forget that, even if Sherlock could. He was desperate for Sherlock. He always would be.
"If you or your brother find anything useful, let me know," he said, and turned and walked away down Baker Street.
***
That afternoon he read John's blog post. Well, more read between the lines. Moriarty had defeated Sherlock and Sherlock had run for cover. But he still needed Sherlock; one failure wasn't the end of the world.
Officially, they were still trying to track down James Moriarty, suspected of murder, terrorist offences and conspiracy to defraud. Unofficially, the Scotland Yard rumour mill was hard at work. MI5 were taking over the case; Moriarty had fled to Ireland; he was some kind of decoy. Greg wasn't surprised when DCS Hamilton appeared on their floor later and stood most of the teams down. The case was no longer a priority. They'd given up, in other words, just like Sherlock had.
It was time to go home. He texted Ruth to say he'd be home by six, and then sent a second message: Do you want me to pick anything up at the supermarket? Trying to show things were back to normal, that he wasn't a crap husband, that he cared.
***
"The kids are off at Jenny's," Ruth told him, as Greg unpacked the milk and tomatoes and peanut butter she'd requested. He'd bought a bottle of rosé as well, hoping they could share it that evening. "I wanted to talk to you on our own."
He stuck the wine in the fridge and looked at her. Her long hair was tied firmly back in a plait; there were black rings around her hazel eyes. She'd been busy coping with the kids and they were both tired. Not a good time to talk, but better not to let things fester.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It was a big case, and I'm not allowed to tell you much about it, even now. It involved bombings, you see."
"But it's over?"
"We didn't get the man. We're not going to." There was a point when it made sense to give up. It didn't mean you had to like it.
Ruth nodded, and then said. "Sorry about that." There was a long pause and she stared down at her hands, as if there were notes on them she wanted to check. Without looking up, she said:
"I think we should have a trial separation." Her voice was calm but hard, and he gaped at her, and wondered for a moment if he'd misheard.
"I've been working things out," she added hastily. "The kids and I would stay at Jenny's, just for a few weeks, while we find a flat somewhere, nearer to Rob's school. Shared custody, of course; we can fit it round your shifts, I'm used to doing that..."
Ruth rattled on about the logistics, all carefully considered and Greg wondered how long she'd been planning this. And whether he ought to do something but sit and stare and listen to his life unravelling. Ruth seemed to have all the answers and he wasn't even sure what the question was yet.
***
He remembered asking why? at some point later in the evening. He was still sitting at the kitchen table and there was a glass of rosé in front of him, and his wife was leaving him.
"It's not working," Ruth said. She wasn't crying; Ruth didn't cry. But her voice sounded an inch away from screaming. "You know it isn't. With a separation...maybe we can sort this out. Work out what we really want."
"I don't want this," Greg replied, and then closed his eyes, trying to think, not just react. Least worst options here, as usual. Saying "No" didn't help, whether to a two-year-old or a chief superintendent. However hard it was, he had to try and co-operate.
"It doesn't make sense all four of you moving out," he said at last, and now he had something concrete to say it was easier. "Suppose I go and stay somewhere for a few weeks, and we see how we feel then, when the dust has settled?"
"Thank you." Ruth's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm sorry, Greg, I just...I just need to work out what to do next."
Her face was miserable and he longed to hug her, make it better somehow. But how did you make things better if you were apparently the problem to start with?
"I'll go and pack," he said, draining his wine glass. "Probably stay at a hotel overnight, don't want to impose on Stan any more."
"The newsagents up the road have got adverts for rooms to rent," Ruth said awkwardly. "It's not...I'm not saying forever. Just for now."
Beg and it will make things worse. Yell and it will make things worse. Throw things and it will make it impossibly worse. He had to get out now, before the numbness wore off. He was an adult and he had to behave like one.
He lay in a cramped hotel bed that night, replaying conversations with Ruth in his head. But no matter what he said, there was never one that ended well.
***
He told Sally a couple of days later, knowing she'd pass it onto the rest of the team.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said. "But just so you know."
"You know what I think?" Sally said belligerently, and he could practically hear "bitch" hovering on her lips. An echo of his own angry impulse to cut Ruth down to size. To stoke the hostility that would turn a trial separation into a permanent gulf.
"Don't wanna hear," he said, and Sally nodded and replied:
"Whatever you want, sir."
She'd tell the others he was too soft, he was sure of it, that Ruth was completely in the wrong. But the thing was, it didn't matter, did it? Results, not intentions, that was what counted in real life. Better swallow his pride and co-operate with Ruth than bring the whole house of cards down just so he could sit in a self-righteous heap. Someone had to act like a grown-up.
***
Sally's extensive network of relatives produced a flat for rent in a moderately dodgy part of Deptford. The kids took the separation better than he'd expected. Better than he'd hoped, maybe. Had he wanted them to say: this is all wrong, this mustn't happen? But even wrong things, impossible things came to seem normal in time, what you'd expect. Ordinary people shuddered when they so much as thought about dead bodies; he saw corpses every week. He'd get used to not being married at some point; he didn't want to, but he knew it would happen.
Part 4
Rating 15 (explicit slash, swearing)
Summary: If he let this go, that was it, Greg knew. Every hold on Sherlock broken, if he covered this up...
Many thanks to The Small Hobbit for betaing.
Part 1, Part 2
What fouled up a marriage, of course, wasn't always the known unknowns. Sometimes it was the things that you couldn't possibly predict: like the Southwark baby boom of the late Nineties and James Phillimore killing himself.
There were too many eleven year-olds in Southwark and Rob didn't get into the nearest secondary school, but one halfway across the borough. In between muttering about the excellent schools in Dorset, Ruth comforted Rob and scheduled meetings with teachers and made plans to improve matters. Greg listened patiently and tried to make helpful suggestions, and got pitying glances from Ruth and Rob at his failure to understand the situation properly.
There were some things Greg did understand, though. That there was something wrong about James Phillimore's suicide. A teenage boy killing himself was hardly unusual. Even the fact that his family and friends hadn't spotted anything wrong was tragic, but commonplace. But when young men decided to kill themselves, they jumped off bridges, or hanged themselves, or gulped down alcohol and painkillers. They didn't take bloody alkaloid poisons. Someone had given Phillimore that drug, and Greg wanted to know who. No-one else did. The file was closed and he brooded about it all over Christmas. He felt he'd let the kid down, but what he needed was some hard evidence.
What he didn't need was a junior transport minister dying and all hell breaking loose. Not to mention Sherlock screwing up the press conference for him. He could make a fool of himself on his own, thank you very much. But it didn't stop him calling in Sherlock as the corpses started to mount. Because what did it matter if he sounded desperate, when he ran up the stairs to 221B and asked Sherlock "Will you come?" What did anything matter as long as there were no more dead bodies?
He didn't even throw a wobbly when Sherlock brought his new flatmate along to Lauriston Gardens, like it was some sort of tourist attraction. But when Sherlock promptly buggered off without telling him or Dr Watson anything, he decided it was time to get control of the operation again. Show Sherlock that there were still some limits.
The drugs bust turned out to be surprisingly informative. There was a spy camera hidden in the sitting room, which suggested that either Mycroft or Sherlock himself was up to something particularly devious. Sherlock also dyed his hair, and was obsessive about organising his clothes, if not spare body parts. Dr Watson, meanwhile, was a decorated ex-army officer who was not sleeping with Sherlock. Well they had separate bedrooms, at least. Why anyone would choose to live with Sherlock if they weren't shagging him, Greg had no idea.
He did soon have an idea of why Sherlock might want Dr Watson around, however, when he saw them together later that night. Sherlock not just talking to the doctor, but listening to him. As if he'd finally found someone whose good opinion he valued. It was probably sentimental of Greg, but he couldn't help telling Dr Watson that evening that Sherlock might yet become a good man, as well as a great one.
No, forget that. It wasn't sentimental, it was utterly stupid. Because what did John Watson promptly go and do an hour later? Shoot somebody with a fucking illegal handgun.
***
"You're looking for a man with nerves of steel," Sherlock announced, standing there with that stupid blanket round him, and then his mouth came to a dead stop. It took a hell of a lot to shut Sherlock up, but when Greg's gaze followed Sherlock's, he knew who could. The small, mostly harmless looking figure of Dr John Watson.
Christ, he thought, and then Sherlock started lying to him about being in shock. Maybe it wasn't a lie, though, because he felt like he'd gone into shock himself. I should do something, he told himself, even as he let Sherlock walk away, towards the man who'd just saved his life by ending another's.
This isn't bloody Afghanistan. If he let this go, that was it, he knew. Every hold on Sherlock broken, if he covered this up, turned a blind eye to what was going on. But if he arrested Dr Watson, that was the end as well. He'd saved Sherlock's life, after all. Greg couldn't have saved Sherlock; he hadn't saved Beth Davenport or Jennifer Wilson or James Phillimore. And Sherlock had found them the killer. Sherlock was the only weapon Greg had sometimes, and maybe John Watson was now Sherlock's weapon.
It's too late, anyhow, he told himself, but he knew that was a lie. He could go back to 221B tomorrow and look for evidence against Dr Watson, pull him in for questioning, and then leave the outcome to the Crown Prosecution Service. They might well not prosecute for the cabbie's death, but if the gun was his, he was looking at an immediate jail sentence.
If John Watson went to jail, Sherlock would never forgive Greg, but so what? You broke the rules, you paid the penalty. That was what life was like. The funny thing was, he suspected Dr Watson understood that. It was Sherlock who didn't have to deal with the consequences of his actions, who relied on always having someone to look after him.
And sure enough, here on cue was Mycroft Holmes, with his smart suit and his glamorous assistant. Greg bet neither of them had ever been to an FE college before.
"Don't say anything," he growled, when the pair stood in front of him. "Or I may change my mind."
Mycroft flicked a glance at his PA, who promptly stepped back, looking as uninterested as ever.
"You might change your mind about what?" Mycroft enquired, with a bland smile that made Greg want to punch him. "Is my brother being awkward?"
Greg crossed his arms, and stood there and said nothing. Which was absolutely sod all use with a Holmes, of course.
"Just now I met Dr Watson," Mycroft drawled. "His hand wasn't shaking and he had an inadequately concealed gun about his person. I take it he's done something rash?"
"Sherlock was about to take poison, when someone shot the serial killer."
"Would it help if I told you that Dr Watson was authorised to carry his gun?"
"I wouldn't believe you."
"Why not? You know what I'm able to do."
"If John Watson was working for you, Sherlock would have kicked him out of the flat within ten minutes."
"Good point, Inspector. But, nevertheless, if you or any of your team should be tempted to arrest Dr Watson, you'll discover he has a handgun license. He has always had that license."
"So I've got no choice?" Greg said.
"You have the choice of hitting your head against a brick wall or not doing so."
He found himself wondering what would happen if he did thump Mycroft. Would his PA just stand there vacantly as usual or would she break his arm?
"I wasn't gonna charge him anyhow," he said at last.
"I know." Mycroft smiled an infinitely irritating smile. "I was merely making the point that your decision was the correct one."
"Reckon so?"
"You may not want Sherlock, but you still need him. I had hoped that Dr Watson would be good for my brother, but I may be wrong. Still, I'm sure things will work out for the best. Good night, DI Lestrade. Sleep well."
***
He went home to Ruth and told him Sherlock had caught a serial killer, and he didn't want to talk about it. She hugged him as he lay in bed beside her, and he told himself that somehow he would make things OK.
***
Greg pulled rank shamelessly and got the February half term off, only to find that Rob was having football camp all week with Mr Morgan.
"Right," he said. "He's one of the PE teachers at the school, isn't he? Is he the skinny one or the vicious looking thug?" He'd turned up late to the last parents' evening, and it had all gone downhill from there.
"He's wonderful," Ruth said. "He's given Rob so much confidence about everything. Don't worry, I can ferry Rob around. I just need you to keep an eye on the girls."
By the end of the week, thanks to Katy, Greg was ready to go on Mastermind with Justin Bieber as his specialist subject. Emily, meanwhile, had taught him how to bandage the paw of an injured tiger, though he suspected it was trickier with a real tiger than her stuffed toy. She'd decided this year she was going to be a vet, not a doctor, which at least meant she no longer felt the need to bandage him up.
He got back to work to find Mark Dimmock was a hero for breaking up a Chinese smuggling ring, and he didn't care. If Sherlock was OK working with someone else, it was fine by him.
***
But a month later there was a funny case, and Sherlock liked those. More than that, it rapidly became the kind of case where Greg needed Sherlock. An improbable puzzle and an impossible deadline; if anybody was going to stop the pips bomber before someone died, it was Sherlock.
Greg stood in 221C Baker Street, rattling out orders to his team, and then braced himself to phone Ruth. To say he would be busy all weekend, but not why. If it got out there was a bomber running rings around the Met there'd be complete panic.
"You said you'd be free on Saturday afternoon," she yelled. "Why is a cold case suddenly so important that it can't wait?" He listened, as she angrily poured out details of arrangements that would have to be altered. She'd have to sort out the swimming lessons and the ballet as usual. But Mr Morgan - Gareth - had found some old football programmes that Rob might want, and she'd promised Rob that they'd go and look at them on Saturday afternoon, while Greg looked after Emily and Katy...
"Can't you all go over to see Gareth Morgan?" he suggested, and Ruth yelled at him some more. Too many months of minor failures as a father, all coming out suddenly in one huge lump of Ruth's hurt. He stood there, with a twelve-hour deadline ticking down, trying to soothe her, conscious of Sherlock switching his attention from the trainers to him. As if there was some vital piece of data to be added to his memory bank: Example of middle-aged couple arguing no. 314.
Greg finished the call at last and turned to the nosy detective. No time to try and explain or excuse himself, so he asked one simple question:
"What do you need to help you solve this?"
***
They were about eight hours down, when Greg went out for a smoke and realised he'd had a text from Ruth. He focused his tired eyes on the screen:
If you're going to be working late, suggest you stay at Stan's, rather than trekking all the way home. R
Greg had kipped on DI Stanislaw Hopkins' sofa a few times in the past, when London transport had got completely fouled up. He'd never had Ruth suggest him doing that before. He sighed and went back to trying to trace Carl Power's former classmates.
***
After a while, the days started to blur together. Had Connie Prince been day 3 or 4, Greg found himself wondering, as the nightmare of countdowns continued. He woke up and there was another body - a dead man on a freezing stretch of the Thames. And a few hours later - or was it a day, or a year? - Ms Wenceslas giving them a name at last. Moriarty.
Greg had real nightmares on Stan's sofa that night: the hostage's voice echoing through the gallery no longer an unknown boy's but Emily's, begging her father to help. He chased after a dream Sherlock, pleading with him to come back, to tell him the answer. Maybe Ruth had been right saying he was better off not coming home, he thought at half six the next morning, as Stan patiently fed him toast and tea, and told him he was going to give himself a heart attack if he didn't slow down.
"There's another pip to come," Greg protested. "Last of five, so it's gotta be something big."
"What's this Moriarty up to?" Stan asked, through a mouthful of toast. "Why's he doing all this?"
"Dunno," Greg said. "I've no idea what the fuck is going on. I just hope Sherlock has."
"You're still working with Sherlock Holmes? Christ. You're really in the shit, Greg."
"No-one else can do what he does."
"Maybe," Stan said. "But I still wouldn't work with him, coz you know things will get fouled up somehow."
"I trust him," Greg said, and Stan sighed and handed him some more toast.
***
Greg wasn't sure he could trust Sherlock, after what happened next. Nothing. When he got back to the Yard that morning there was still no word from the bomber. It gave them a chance to catch up, try and get ahead before the final hostage was taken. Maybe even stop that happening, get this maniac Moriarty before he did...something. He texted Sherlock to see if he'd made any progress overnight, but there was no reply. Not even the usual Thinking or It would help if you banned the playing of Radio 1 in Baker Street while I'm on a case.
When there was still no reply by mid-afternoon, his nerve cracked and he went round to 221B. He rang the doorbell and eventually the door opened. Sherlock stood there, blocking Greg's way in.
"You need more than one person to carry out a drugs bust," he announced, his pale grey eyes staring into Greg's, as if he was trying to hypnotise him.
"I need your help."
"I'm busy."
"What Moriarty's going to do next?"
"Nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Sherlock said, "that the game is over."
"So where is he?" Greg demanded. "He killed twelve people in Glasgow, Sherlock. We have to track him down."
Sherlock just stood there, not replying. He looked like some strange, beautiful statue, and Greg had a sudden terrible urge to grab the man, shake some sense into him. Shit, that was how you gave someone brain damage, wasn't it? Or was that just with babies? He forced his hands to stay down, his mouth to stay shut.
"I met Jim Moriarty for the first time last night," Sherlock said, almost calmly, and suddenly Greg felt like hugging him, rather than throttling him. Because if they had a description, something to go on, they had some hope.
"So what you got?"
"Nothing. The man doesn't exist officially. Well, you'd hardly expect a criminal mastermind to have a Facebook page, would you?"
"You must have something," Greg insisted, "Some way we can get hold of him."
"I can't do it and the Met certainly can't," Sherlock said. "But I know a man who can." His face was still calm, but there was something acid in his tone now, and Greg belatedly realised who he meant.
"You're leaving Mycroft to deal with this?"
"He has the resources to find the man wherever in the world he goes. I don't."
"You're giving up on the case?"
"I'm delegating," Sherlock said. His face hardened into the merciless expression that Greg knew too well. The one that meant: Back off now or you'll regret it. It was tempting to try and push further, to tell Sherlock that he couldn't give up, but he didn't dare to. That was what it always came down to in the end. If Sherlock wanted to stop helping the Met, he could do so right this minute. And if he did that - if he did that because Greg pissed him off - people would die as a result. He wouldn't be able to forget that, even if Sherlock could. He was desperate for Sherlock. He always would be.
"If you or your brother find anything useful, let me know," he said, and turned and walked away down Baker Street.
***
That afternoon he read John's blog post. Well, more read between the lines. Moriarty had defeated Sherlock and Sherlock had run for cover. But he still needed Sherlock; one failure wasn't the end of the world.
Officially, they were still trying to track down James Moriarty, suspected of murder, terrorist offences and conspiracy to defraud. Unofficially, the Scotland Yard rumour mill was hard at work. MI5 were taking over the case; Moriarty had fled to Ireland; he was some kind of decoy. Greg wasn't surprised when DCS Hamilton appeared on their floor later and stood most of the teams down. The case was no longer a priority. They'd given up, in other words, just like Sherlock had.
It was time to go home. He texted Ruth to say he'd be home by six, and then sent a second message: Do you want me to pick anything up at the supermarket? Trying to show things were back to normal, that he wasn't a crap husband, that he cared.
***
"The kids are off at Jenny's," Ruth told him, as Greg unpacked the milk and tomatoes and peanut butter she'd requested. He'd bought a bottle of rosé as well, hoping they could share it that evening. "I wanted to talk to you on our own."
He stuck the wine in the fridge and looked at her. Her long hair was tied firmly back in a plait; there were black rings around her hazel eyes. She'd been busy coping with the kids and they were both tired. Not a good time to talk, but better not to let things fester.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It was a big case, and I'm not allowed to tell you much about it, even now. It involved bombings, you see."
"But it's over?"
"We didn't get the man. We're not going to." There was a point when it made sense to give up. It didn't mean you had to like it.
Ruth nodded, and then said. "Sorry about that." There was a long pause and she stared down at her hands, as if there were notes on them she wanted to check. Without looking up, she said:
"I think we should have a trial separation." Her voice was calm but hard, and he gaped at her, and wondered for a moment if he'd misheard.
"I've been working things out," she added hastily. "The kids and I would stay at Jenny's, just for a few weeks, while we find a flat somewhere, nearer to Rob's school. Shared custody, of course; we can fit it round your shifts, I'm used to doing that..."
Ruth rattled on about the logistics, all carefully considered and Greg wondered how long she'd been planning this. And whether he ought to do something but sit and stare and listen to his life unravelling. Ruth seemed to have all the answers and he wasn't even sure what the question was yet.
***
He remembered asking why? at some point later in the evening. He was still sitting at the kitchen table and there was a glass of rosé in front of him, and his wife was leaving him.
"It's not working," Ruth said. She wasn't crying; Ruth didn't cry. But her voice sounded an inch away from screaming. "You know it isn't. With a separation...maybe we can sort this out. Work out what we really want."
"I don't want this," Greg replied, and then closed his eyes, trying to think, not just react. Least worst options here, as usual. Saying "No" didn't help, whether to a two-year-old or a chief superintendent. However hard it was, he had to try and co-operate.
"It doesn't make sense all four of you moving out," he said at last, and now he had something concrete to say it was easier. "Suppose I go and stay somewhere for a few weeks, and we see how we feel then, when the dust has settled?"
"Thank you." Ruth's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm sorry, Greg, I just...I just need to work out what to do next."
Her face was miserable and he longed to hug her, make it better somehow. But how did you make things better if you were apparently the problem to start with?
"I'll go and pack," he said, draining his wine glass. "Probably stay at a hotel overnight, don't want to impose on Stan any more."
"The newsagents up the road have got adverts for rooms to rent," Ruth said awkwardly. "It's not...I'm not saying forever. Just for now."
Beg and it will make things worse. Yell and it will make things worse. Throw things and it will make it impossibly worse. He had to get out now, before the numbness wore off. He was an adult and he had to behave like one.
He lay in a cramped hotel bed that night, replaying conversations with Ruth in his head. But no matter what he said, there was never one that ended well.
***
He told Sally a couple of days later, knowing she'd pass it onto the rest of the team.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said. "But just so you know."
"You know what I think?" Sally said belligerently, and he could practically hear "bitch" hovering on her lips. An echo of his own angry impulse to cut Ruth down to size. To stoke the hostility that would turn a trial separation into a permanent gulf.
"Don't wanna hear," he said, and Sally nodded and replied:
"Whatever you want, sir."
She'd tell the others he was too soft, he was sure of it, that Ruth was completely in the wrong. But the thing was, it didn't matter, did it? Results, not intentions, that was what counted in real life. Better swallow his pride and co-operate with Ruth than bring the whole house of cards down just so he could sit in a self-righteous heap. Someone had to act like a grown-up.
***
Sally's extensive network of relatives produced a flat for rent in a moderately dodgy part of Deptford. The kids took the separation better than he'd expected. Better than he'd hoped, maybe. Had he wanted them to say: this is all wrong, this mustn't happen? But even wrong things, impossible things came to seem normal in time, what you'd expect. Ordinary people shuddered when they so much as thought about dead bodies; he saw corpses every week. He'd get used to not being married at some point; he didn't want to, but he knew it would happen.
Part 4